Matters of the Blood Page 4

  "Damn, and I thought . had problems.” Bea relaxed and smiled at me, trusting in my self-diagnosis. “So what happens now? You've never really told me."

  "I never told you specifics because I didn't expect to have to deal with it anytime soon,” I said, shrugging. “Mostly, I just wait. Not much else I can do. I might have more visions, short spells of power bursts or any combination of symptoms. Then after a few weeks, it'll all be over and I'll settle into one talent. Probably shapeshifter since that's what my brothers are."

  I had my mental fingers crossed. I hoped I wasn't underestimating this. One of my aunts described the experience as being like a real-life role-playing game. The multi-sided die would be tossed down a long narrow path, bouncing and skipping its length. Each side was another manifestation of power and Fate was the Dungeon Master. Every time the die turned and a number flashed into view, some talent would manifest itself, then another and another until, eventually, it came to a halt at the end of the lane with only one face pointing upward. The power “showing” was your lifetime talent.

  "Symptoms?"

  "Nothing bad, really,” I said. “When Aunt Jane went through this about twenty years ago, I barely even noticed. Every once in a while she'd go into a mini-trance and make some prediction about the future. She had a couple of episodes of telekinesis, too. She could float pencils. But nothing of consequence."

  "So, what is she now?"

  "A healer. Symptoms don't necessarily mirror your inherited talent. We don't really know why.” I laughed a little, trying to ease both of our minds. “Don't worry, it's never fatal."

  That was the understatement of the century. What was the opposite of “not fatal” anyway? Oh yeah, “immortal,” or near enough. Not a bad trade-off, but sometimes the price was a little high. I was afraid mine was going to be higher. Thirty years of living in mainstream human culture didn't necessarily prepare me to handle this on my own. But I sure as hell wasn't yelling for help—not just yet.

  "This whole thing's a big pain in the ass for me right now,” I said. “Usually, when the Change comes on, you spend time with family, but the last thing I want to do is go back to the smothering bosom of the clan."

  Bea raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, giving me that “don't mess with me” look.

  "I'll be fine,” I insisted. “They obviously think I'm better off here as Marty's watchdog.” I stopped talking, turned in the booth and leaned against the wall, not wanting to meet Bea's eyes. There was something else I wasn't telling. I hoped she wouldn't remember that part. I'd shared the story of my heritage years ago, just before I left for England, after my break-up with Carlton. She'd swallowed hard, looked me in the eye and basically accepted everything I told her. Not surprising, she'd spent enough time at my father's house to notice things we normally didn't let outsiders see. By the time we were in our early twenties, she'd become an adjunct member of the family.

  "But what about the Inheritance?"

  Shit. She remembered.

  Only one person in a handful of generations inherited all the abilities and powers of the clan and was therefore destined for greatness, yadda yadda ... blah blah blah. Chosen One and all that. This may not be Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but our genetic Texas Lotto winner was just about as lucky ... or as cursed. Whoever became the heir got to play politics for the rest of his or her extremely long life—or as long as she or he could stand it. Trouble was, you couldn't just abdicate. There had to be an heir ready to take the position.

  My father's great-grandmother, Gigi, currently held the post, and there was no heir in sight. Not that it was a problem, she loved being in charge. In fact, she really wanted the position to stay in our branch of the clan, but there was no guarantee the next leader would come from our particular line. Even so, genetics being a powerful thing, my family was willing to play the odds. At the very least, I carried half my father's genes—genes that could be passed on to a future leader. Making babies would be right up there on their list of Things for Keira to Do, but most definitely not on mine. Bea knew I was expected to rejoin the family when I began to Change. I wasn't going.

  "Bea, I am not ready for this. I'm too damn young to start playing the politics and breeding game."

  "They're not going to come here and drag you there if you don't want to go, are they?"

  I smiled. “I don't think it's likely, but better safe than sorry. I'm not telling anyone. You know how Dad is. He'll start begging and appealing to my better nature or whatever. It's bad enough that I keep having to deal with the consequences of Marty's short leash; I don't want to have to mess with clan politics for a long time yet."

  "They haven't changed their minds about him?"

  "Nope. And they aren't likely to. All I ever wanted was to stay here and be left alone for a little while—instead, I got stuck with Marty. I never told you this, but I even asked if I could donate part of my regular trust allowance to him."

  "Would he have taken it?"

  "Oh, please, what do you think? I was counting on it. Then he could do what he always wanted—leave town. That would get me off the family hook. But for some reason, Gigi had a conniption fit. My guess is that she doesn't want him loose. He knows too much, hates us too much to be trusted."

  I brightened a little as something occurred to me. Considering my new circumstances, I just might be able to free myself of Marty duty for good, maybe turn it over to some pre-changeling who needed a job. My spirits fell again as I realized what I'd have to do to reap that particular benefit. It would mean going home ... not Rio Seco home, but clan home in Canada.

  Not an option at this point. I preferred Marty's whining to Gigi's wrath, any day. At least I could pretend to ignore Marty. Ignoring Gigi was neither safe nor recommended.

  Bea laughed. “Damn it, girl, I've always known your family life was interesting, but this is too much. I'm so glad I'm just a lowly human with mundane problems like making a living, paying my bills, hiring ex-convicts."

  "Yeah, I guess I'm just living in interesting times."

  I really wouldn't trade my abilities for anything, but I'd certainly give up some of the intrigue that went with them.

  Bea picked up her coffee cup and slid out of the booth. “And I suppose I need to get back to my own problems. I need to check to make sure Dusty's chopped up the veggies and not his brother."

  She looked back over at me. “You are going to be okay, m'hija?” She made it more of a question than a statement.

  "I'll be fine,” I said as I stood up. “I really should run. Marty's whining that he needs to see me and I want to get over there and out before dark. We still doing the chick flick thing later?"

  "Who's on the short leash? Baby Cuz yells for you and you're going out to pull his bacon out of the fire again?"

  I shrugged. “Yeah, well, what can I say? If I don't go, you know I'll hear about it for days. He's saying it's family related and you know what happened last time."

  "Yeah, but he's not dating anyone, is he?"

  "Not that I know of, but who knows with Marty?"

  Bea grinned. “So true.” She drained her coffee cup and stood up. “Okay, girl, I'll see you later. Bad movies and good munchies it is. You get wine?"

  "Yep, stocked up a couple of days ago.” I headed out the door with a wave. “See you when you get there."

  I noticed Dusty Albright standing alone at the counter as I left. His gaze was a tangible weight on my back as I crossed the to the exit. I couldn't help shivering as a low snigger followed me out the door.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Fat drops of rain splattered my windshield as I pulled into the back lot of Nelson Funeral Home some twenty minutes later. The perfect weather wasn't all that perfect anymore. Typical. Weather around here changed more often than I changed my mind. I'd have to hurry if I wanted to get home before the storm hit. I figured I had about an hour. Maybe, with luck, I could be in and out of the mortuary in a few minutes.

 
; Luck. Fate. Yeah, right. Life's a bitch, and then you have to deal with your relatives.

  I parked near the rear service entrance, under the carport roof, next to the hearse and the mortuary van. My Land Rover Defender was most definitely out of place, adding an almost lighthearted note to the ghoulish lineup. I smiled to myself remembering Marty's reaction the first time I'd parked there. He'd wanted me to move the car. He said it was because it looked bad to have such a frivolous car parked next to the hearse. He was just jealous, because he couldn't afford one, too. I kept parking there to piss him off. It always worked. It's all about the small victories.

  * * * *

  To get to Marty's office and the front of the building, I had to walk through a couple of storage areas, past caskets and urns and things I never inspected too closely. I might know Death better than most, but I never liked the tangible evidence of it. Besides, humans made such a fuss over it all, spending too many hard-earned dollars on overpriced trappings. I liked our way of dealing with it better—we mostly didn't.

  My clan doesn't die of natural causes. We can't catch diseases. Short of being beheaded, having our hearts ripped out, or total exsanguination, we survived just about anything. Death is a choice for us. Sometimes, after centuries of life, the only thing left to experience is the absence of it. Some choose to die sooner than others. Thus my original job as Escort—Death's little assistant—a sort of Keira Kevorkian to the supernatural. Weird, but it was what I did. Trained at my uncle's knee. I was good at it, too. A natural empathy for the dead ran in my branch of the family. Even those of us who became shapeshifters still understood the dead better than most. The only one without said affinity? Yeah, Marty.

  As I turned a blind corner just past the storage room, I smacked straight into a body. Only this one was alive and walking—or at least had been until I knocked into him. He grabbed both my arms and turned me to the side.

  "Watch where you're going,” he growled and kept going past me without stopping.

  For a moment, I didn't recognize the stocky figure. He was so out of place, I had to do a double take for my brain to register his identity.

  Derek Albright didn't stop walking and was soon out of sight. Confused, I paused for a second before running after him.

  I caught up to Derek in the storeroom. He was squatting down in front of a mini-fridge, just closing the lid of a small plastic Igloo cooler that was on the floor in front of him. The cooler had definitely seen better days. Its white lid was mostly gray, a few reddish brown smears dirtying the torn KAJA-97 and Red Man stickers. I caught a glimpse of a couple of Mason jars inside before he snapped it shut.

  "Hey, what are you doing?"

  "Working,” he said, abruptly, and stood up.

  "What?” I was stunned.

  "That's right,” he snarled, “I'm working for your piss-ant little cousin—seems he needs my help.” His smirk matched his tone of voice. “Daytime at the caf?, evenings here. Ain't that just grand?"

  Oh yeah, grand and totally dandy. It wasn't bad enough I'd had to play chicken with his brother earlier, now the younger of the two macho morons needed to cluck and shout. What the hell did I ever do to deserve this?

  I stood my ground, meeting his stare and absently noticing that, despite everything, he cleaned up fairly decently. Out of his chef's whites and into the standard good ol’ boy uniform of jeans and boots, he was almost respectable in a cheap-trailer-park-shiny-pants sort of way. Even so, he still couldn't hide the fact that he was uncomfortable. The knuckles on Dusty's hand had turned white as his grip on the cooler's handle tightened.

  "What are you, chief mourner?” I asked sarcastically, still blocking the door so he couldn't leave. “I don't suppose you'll tell me what you do for my cousin?"

  "No, Miss Smarty-Pants,” he said, mimicking the name-calling he used to do in school. “I work for him—not for you."

  "I don't imagine you'll tell me what's in the cooler?” I said as he neared.

  "Barbecue sauce."

  "And you have it here because...?"

  "Because I feel like it."

  Oh lovely, such scintillating conversation.

  "So, where's Marty?” I asked.

  Derek shrugged. “Had to go out."

  "Out? In what?” He obviously hadn't taken either of the business vehicles. Both were still parked out back.

  He shrugged. “Dunno, his car, I guess. Got a call. He'll be back.” He glanced at the cheap plastic watch on his wrist. “I gotta go. Get out of my way."

  Derek moved toward me, bulky body looming. He wasn't much taller than me, but his shoulders were easily half again as wide as mine.

  Before he could push me aside, I stepped back, causing him to break stride and nearly stumble. He grunted and left through the back door, letting it slam behind him.

  Bloody hell. This was just great. Marty wasn't here. But he'd be back. Yeah, him and the Terminator—and me. I was not sticking around. A rumble of thunder echoed in the near distance. Time to leave my dearly departed cousin a note and be just as departed. He could call me later and come by my house if he still felt the burning need to talk.

  When I opened the service hallway door that led into the main reception area, I realized something was wrong—well, not exactly wrong, more like not right.

  I hadn't been to the funeral home in a couple of months, but the last time I visited, the place resembled a dilapidated Edward Gorey mansion, just like it had all my life. But now, it looked like the “Trading Spaces” crew had been let loose with a ton of money and a hell of a lot more taste than they'd ever shown on television.

  Walls once covered in gloomy paper and dark paneling were now painted soothing shades of beige and sage green. The oppressive moth-eaten furniture was gone, replaced by plush overstuffed chairs and an equally plush sofa, all color-coordinated with the new brighter color scheme. Tiffany-style lamps flanked the elegant seating area, casting a warm, almost inviting, light.

  This most certainly didn't track. Either there had been a whole hell of a lot more dead bodies in Rio Seco County recently or my cousin had finally hit the winning Lotto numbers. I doubted the latter, since I'd be the first one he'd gloat to ... and I didn't actually know much about the former. I never read obituaries.

  The decorating hadn't stopped at the reception area.

  I sat down in the still-shiny-new executive chair in Marty's office, my hand automatically stroking the smooth mahogany leather. A new Euro-style oak desk and file cabinet dominated the center of the small room; a couple of leather guest chairs added an additional grace note. Forest green pleated shades covered the windows, complementing the delicate fawn of the new Berber carpet. Okay, all this was way beyond Marty's budget, no matter how many overpriced funerals he'd performed.

  So much for leaving a note and taking off. I had to know how he could afford this. Marty had never computerized, but I knew he kept comprehensive paper files. I opened one of the drawers in his desk to see if I could find anything.

  It didn't take long for me to realize that the subtle lighting of the room might be fine for comforting a grieving family, but lacked the right number of lumens for comfortable reading—or snooping. I leaned over to reach the switch of the floor lamp that stood next to the desk. Nothing happened when I pressed it, even though there was a bulb under the shade and it looked new.

  It didn't take long to discover the problem. The lamp was plugged into a power strip to the left of the desk. A couple of other cords led to a calculator and to an electric pencil sharpener. The strip wasn't plugged into the wall socket. Easily remedied.

  A few seconds and a couple of sparks later, all the lights in my cousin's office went out. The hall lights were still on, so I must have just tripped a breaker.

  Double damnation and hell. The breaker box was located in the one room in this building I really hated. I could ignore the problem and pretend I didn't know what happened—which would result in my totally non-handy cousin calling an electrician and paying outrageou
s rates—or I could swallow my distaste for the room and take care of it myself. Guilt won out over aversion. Besides, an electrician might cost me money.

  I unplugged the offending strip and headed to the prep room and the breaker box.

  The prep room was located at the far back of the building, just past the rear service entrance where I'd originally come in. Access to the room was through the infamous security door.

  My cousin shared the key code with me when he'd shown off his purchase, making me try it for myself, preening at the overwhelming coolness factor of having this high-tech door, never once thanking me for paying for it. Typical.

  I punched in the code, half-hoping Marty had changed the combination in his quest for better security. It would have given me an excuse to just leave and not worry about the breaker, but I wasn't that lucky. The lock clicked and I pushed the lever down to open the door. I checked to make sure there were no occupants before I stepped through. I didn't think there would be. Unless Marty was working on someone, any bodies would be in the mortuary refrigerator.

  The door slammed shut behind me as a massive boom of thunder shook the building, catching me by surprise. I could have sworn the storm hadn't been that close. The overhead lights flickered once, twice. I held my breath. Another crash sounded and all the lights blinked out, plunging me into a darkness so complete, it was almost solid. There were no windows to let in even the weak light of the rainy evening. With no light at all, even my better-than-human night vision couldn't help.

  Shit. Now what?

  The room suddenly felt oppressively small, even though I knew it was more than thirty feet to the opposite wall and at least twenty across. It wasn't the complete blackness that bothered me, but the aura of profound sadness permeating the entire building was stronger in this room. Its patina coated every wall, every fixture, pressed against me, seeped inside—shadows of sorrows past and present, reminding me of the fragile mortality of humans. The funeral home had been operating for nearly a hundred years. That's a lot of bodies, a lot of grief. Right now, I felt every single bit of it. Just another side-effect of being who I was. My special bond with the Reaper enhanced any emotions associated with death.